A Christmas At Downton
by repmetsyrrah
Summary: Written for the S/T Fic Exchange for magfreak, who requested a fluffy "Canon fic in which Tom and Sybil never had to leave Ireland and they (and any kids that may be around—leaving that up to the author) travel to Downton for Christmas for the first time as a family."


Written for magfreak for the S/T Fic Exchange!

Magfreak requested a fluffy_ "Canon fic in which Tom and Sybil never had to leave Ireland and they (and any kids that may be around—leaving that up to the author) travel to Downton for Christmas for the first time as a family."_

Thanks to TriadChild for looking it over for me as I wrote for my usual beta (and putting up with me spending our whole vacation stressing over writing this thing lol).

**A Christmas At Downton**

* * *

><p>Tom sighed as he closed the door to the bedroom and leaned heavily against it with his eyes closed.<p>

"Don't look so relieved," Sybil teased gently. "You've survived Christmas Eve but tomorrow's the big day."

"God help us."

Sybil laughed and crossed the room to give him a comforting kiss.

She had always known when she married she would be expected to live in her husband's house and would see much less of her family and Downton.

When she had fallen in love with Tom Branson she had accepted that she would mostly likely never see her family again. The realisation that she would risk such a thing to be with him had been a large part in helping her see how much she truly did love him.

Thankfully, she had been wrong on that count, but not as much as she would have liked.

They had managed to make it to Mary and Matthew's wedding with the Dowager's help and almost everyone had missed Edith's elopement with her husband. (Sybil had teased her in her letters that she had been the one to do it first, aborted attempt or not. Though Edith had risked much less.)

Cora had visited for Saoirse's birth a few months later and her sisters had come over briefly a short time after that but since then, though letters were frequent and many, until now, Sybil hadn't laid eyes on her family for almost four years.

It hadn't been for lack of trying, though the Bransons had perhaps put in more of an effort than Lord Grantham. They had been stopped by the death of Tom's mother last year and the year before by Sybil and Saoirse both catching the flu. Shortly after that her parents had cancelled due to her father's, now recovered, health.

However they had finally managed to both get enough time off work to make a decent trip, arriving on Christmas Eve and planning to stay until after the New Year.

Her daughter had been cooperative for the most part. Saoirse had tolerated the long voyage across the sea and to Yorkshire though the car ride seemed to try her patience. She was taking after her father, Sybil had mused, the nearer they got the more on edge the both of them were.

Thankfully the towering Abbey and so many new people eager to meet her had distracted the four-year-old long enough for introductions to be made and long-awaited reunions had. She had quite enjoyed being fawned over in the library too but Sybil and Tom knew her well enough to see the signs when she started to grow tired and they made their excuses to retreat to their room before dinner, which thankfully passed uneventfully.

Saoirse had been fast asleep when they had gone to say goodnight but they hadn't lingered in the nursery, knowing the thought of the pile of presents awaiting her underneath the massive tree the next morning would have her up at dawn.

"At least she likes the nursery," Sybil said, continuing her thoughts out loud. "George and Theodore seem to have accepted her well enough and I'm sure when Edith brings Harry around they'll get along too."

"Is Edith not staying here then?"

"Her sister-in-law is ill so they're spending Christmas there, but we'll see her for New Years," Sybil told him.

"So, only one prodigal daughter then?"

Sybil gave a small smile. "Edith may have eloped but I doubt she's nearly as prodigal as Papa finds me."

She wondered if, after so long, her father still hoped she might come back.

Maybe that's why he had never come to visit. He had managed seeing her while she was with child but maybe he'd thought that seeing the child herself, living proof his daughter had absolutely no intention of giving up her husband, or her life in Dublin, would be too much.

But then, it hadn't gone as badly as she had feared it might have.

She could see clearly even after so long, her father was still coming to terms with his youngest child's choices but he had been kind to his eldest grandchild and interested in knowing more about her.

In fact, she could even say it had gone rather well.

Sybil was cautiously optimistic.

* * *

><p>It hadn't occurred to Tom to think much beyond Christmas morning with his daughters and dinner with the family but he'd quite forgotten that in between, the servants were to receive their gifts from the family.<p>

Which now included him.

He had often stood in this hall in his green livery, hat removed of course, but buttons polished and his boots spotless as he waited his turn to receive a nice, but not really heartfelt, present of their choosing.

He was usually gifted books. History and politics, nothing too radical but interesting none-the-less. Tom had to admit, despite the lack of feeling behind it, he'd always appreciated them and all still rested on one of the bookshelves in their flat at home.

Saoirse had thoroughly exhausted herself that morning opening the mass of presents she had awoken to and was now napping upstairs with her equally tired out cousins.

Cora and Robert had spent far more on their granddaughter than Tom was comfortable with but the delight on her face and the sheer joy the presents brought her had gone a long way to helping him forget his worries.

However, right now he had little to help him forget. He stood awkwardly at the end of the family, like a shoe on the wrong foot, as his old colleagues wished him a Merry Christmas like a stranger and called him 'sir'.

After the fifth awkward greeting, he leaned towards his wife, desperately needing a distraction.

"Do you remember the year we did this after you'd accepted me?"

Sybil laughed quietly. "How could I forget?"

Her hand found his, their fingers threading together as they both remembered the last Christmas they'd spent here.

"I was so worried," she continued, keeping her voice down. "I thought the second you came up to get your present everyone would realise and we'd be thrown out into the snow."

"Am I that irresistible, Mrs Branson?" he asked cheekily, raising an eyebrow.

"You are that full of yourself," Sybil shot back without hesitation.

"Merry Christmas, sir, milady."

Both of them were rather startled by the maid who had come to the end of the line and gave them an odd look at the reaction.

"Merry Christmas," Tom managed, hoping no one else had seem them jump.

"Merry Christmas, Madge," Sybil told her in a much more collected tone.

The maid nodded and gave a slight curtsy before continuing to take her place back with the servants.

Tom sighed as he saw how many more were still to come but Sybil's hand remained firmly around his and when they stood like that, it wasn't so bad after all.

* * *

><p>"I don't suppose you brought a set of tails with you this time?"<p>

Tom stiffened at the perceived slight against him though, knowing her father, the insult probably wasn't as much in his head as they'd likely tell him if he pointed it out. Thankfully he didn't.

"I don't own a set of tails," he informed Lord Grantham calmly. "That much has not changed."

"Let's not worry about such small detail, today of all days," Cora stepped in with a peace-keeping smile.

"Clothing has never been a small detail." Violet looked almost offended Cora would suggest so. "You can tell an awful lot by how a person dresses themselves."

"I hope very much so, Lady Grantham," Tom said, though if he'd taken her by surprise with his agreement she didn't show it. "As a matter of fact-"

"Mama's right," Mary cut in. "It's Christmas, we're glad to have Sybil and her family with us, no matter what they're wearing."

"Hear, hear," Matthew agreed, raising his glass. "To family."

"To family." The toast went around the room and Sybil felt herself relaxing. Yes, Tom was still stiff and there was palpable tension between him and her father sometimes, but it was hardly anything the Abbey hadn't seen before.

Tom took a generous swig from his whiskey after he'd toasted along with everyone else before leaning towards his wife and speaking quietly. "You know, I was only going to tell him I did bring -"

"I know, dear," Sybil assured him. "Mary doesn't know you like I do, she only thought she was avoiding a fight. It will just have to be a surprise."

The door behind them opened before he could reply and a small brown-haired blur darted towards them with a shout.

"Mama! Da!"

George trotted from Nanny into his mother's arms at a more sedate pace with an odd look at his loud cousin, who ignored it completely.

Sybil just laughed as her lap was suddenly full of an excited and decidedly well-rested child, eager to share with them everything they had missed while with the adults.

"Are you enjoying the nursery?"

"It's fun!" Saoirse told them excitedly. "Nanny lets us play with all the toys whenever we want and when we went for a walk other Nanny spun me like Da does and we got to pat Isis too. I don't know if I like sharing a bedroom because Theodore cries sometimes but Nanny takes him away if he does so I suppose it's okay."

"That's wonderful to hear," Tom told her. Sybil was rather impressed with his acting abilities, no one listening could have possibly guessed at his lengthy complaints and worries about leaving Saoirse to the mercy of Downton's nursery and Nannies.

"Grandpa, why do the servants have to eat downstairs?"

The room fell quiet at George's unexpected question. Half surprised, the other half shocked such a thing would be asked in the library of Downton Abbey- or indeed, at all.

"What brought that about?" Robert asked, breaking the silence with a small laugh.

"Saoirse asked where they were and I said downstairs but I don't know why."

Sybil avoided her father's presumably irritated glare, instead sharing a slightly amused look with her husband.

"George, that's not the sort of thing to ask at this time," Violet told the young boy primly.

Sybil wondered how much time she spent with her great-grandchildren if she expected that to put an end to it.

"But why?"

"Perhaps your Aunt Sybil can explain to you and your cousin later," Robert suggested, this time managing to catch his daughter's eye.

"Perhaps not," Sybil replied softly and unapologetically.

"Have you had time to play with all your presents yet?" Mary asked loudly, taking the attention away from topics making her grandmother and father uncomfortable.

"Not yet, but did you know Saoirse says her parents have to pay Father Christmas?" George asked.

"Did they?" Mary looked amused, though Sybil would have prefered her tone to be less patronising.

"Does the extent of your modern upbringing know no bounds?"

Sybil ignored her grandmother.

"Well, he can't just steal everything he gives out, I suppose," Matthew agreed, looking rather impressed at the idea.

George nodded solemnly. "That's why some children don't get as much. But it's okay because I don't mind sharing."

"How lovely of you, George."

Thankfully for everyone, the young boy's generosity was charming enough to break the uncomfortableness of his apparently challenging questions and the various conversations that had been taking place before moved on.

"You don't miss us then?" Tom asked his daughter, pulling her onto his lap. "Being up in the nursery with Nanny?"

Saoirse frowned, giving the question serious consideration, and Sybil had to fight not to laugh at what a difficult question it posed for the girl.

"I think it's fun sometimes but not a long, long time," she answered finally. "Can I have dinner with you?"

"You have to eat dinner there too, I'm sorry love," Tom told her. "But do you know what?" He added, leaning in secretly.

"What?" Saoirse asked, just as quietly.

Tom grinned. "I'd much rather be having my dinner with you too."

* * *

><p>"I must confess, you've surprised me," Lord Grantham admitted to Tom after dinner that night as he looked at his son-in-law's dinner jacket. "Though it's still not really formal attire."<p>

"It's a _compromise_, Lord Grantham," Tom told him. "I won't change to please you, nor will I raise my daughter to your liking. But though our political views are in opposition, there's no reason we must be."

"You only say that because of Sybil," Robert sighed. He looked over at his daughter and took another, large swig of whiskey.

"Maybe," Tom agreed, following his gaze, his face softening as he watched Sybil laughing with her mother and Matthew.

He turned back to her father. "But what should that matter? If the outcome helps us all? I'm willing to make an effort for her. Do you want her to see you refusing to do the same? Do you want to be that person? You gave us your blessing when we left, prove that you meant it."

"You certainly weren't this outspoken last time you came here," Robert commented.

Tom shrugged.

"A lot has happened since then."

* * *

><p>"Is it as big as you remember?"<p>

Sybil smiled at her father as he came to join her in admiring the huge Christmas tree the dominated the hall.

"Everything's a little smaller than I remember," she told him softly. "Though just as beautiful."

"We got this one off the Drew's farm," he said with a note of pride in his choice. "George and Harry helped us pick it out."

"Saoirse can't stop talking about it," Sybil said with a fond smile. "I'm afraid next year we're in for tears when we can't take out our roof to fit one just as big."

She laughed at the idea but her father remained silent, taking another drink as they stood together, staring up at the magnificent tree.

It was another few moments before Robert spoke again.

"She's a lively little thing isn't she?"

"Not as little as she used to be," Sybil laughed. "She's growing so fast."

"I know the feeling." He placed his arm around her and Sybil leaned gladly into the embrace.

"She asks a lot of questions too."

And there it was.

"I can't stop her asking questions, Papa, and I won't stop teaching her to treat people the same." She spoke firmly, standing up straighter, almost shrugging off the arm still around her shoulder.

She should have known it was going too well.

"No, I don't suppose you will. And I wouldn't expect you to."

Sybil looked up in surprise.

"She is your daughter, isn't she? In much more than looks."

"She has Tom's eyes," Sybil pointed out, unsure what else to say.

"I'm biased," Robert replied with a smile. "Of course I didn't know him as a boy but she reminds me so much of you as a young girl. I've known her a day yet I can't help but love her."

Sybil couldn't speak for a moment, throwing her arms around her father and hugging him tightly.

"I do know it's hard for you, Papa, and we'll still disagree a lot because I won't change a thing about what we teach her but you are Saoirse's family and you have no idea how happy I am to hear that."

"I'm happy to say it," he assured her, kissing her cheek gently as she finally let go.

"You could bring her back next year." He nodded up at the tree when Sybil gave him a confused look. "She could help us choose too."

"It took us long enough to both get time off work, and at Christmas it's especially hard," Sybil sighed. "Though I'm grateful for the offer."

"Then… perhaps next year I can help Saoirse choose one to fit in your flat then."

"Do you really mean that?" Sybil asked, slightly breathlessly.

"I do," her father told her. "But we'll make arrangements later. Now, come back in, we're about to start the game. I assume you're told Tom how to play?"

"Of course," Sybil lied smoothly.

She knew she had forgotten something.

* * *

><p>"Admit it, you enjoyed today."<p>

Tom was determined to admit no such thing.

"After ending it by making a fool of myself."

"It's charades, darling, the whole point is to make an idiot of yourself."

"You did rather well at maintaining your dignity."

Sybil laughed. "I was up there for twice as long as you," she reminded him. "You only think I did well because you love me and are too kind."

She smiled and slipped out of her dress, letting it slide onto the ground before she stepped out of it and put it over a chair. Tom watched her undress, rather shamelessly enjoying the show. Sybil turned to face him, naked from the waist up. Her smile grew wider as Tom was slightly distracted then. Unfortunately, she didn't waste time in reaching for her nightgown and slipping it over her head.

She laughed and stuck her tongue out at him when he sighed in disappointment.

It was a nightly ritual, whoever got to bed first got to watch the other change. They always had fun with it but tonight Tom had also been trying to figure out what was different with his wife and he finally pinpointed it just as she finished getting ready for bed.

"You seem happier."

For all her excitement over this trip he knew she had been nervous. Even today she had never seemed as completely relaxed as he knew she would have been at home. But now she looked as if a huge weight had been lifted from her.

"I spoke with Papa," Sybil told him, coming to her side of the bed. "We talked and I think we understand a few things better now."

"I'm glad to hear it," Tom told her, genuinely meaning it.

"He said he might come visit us next year."

"Oh dear Lord," Tom muttered, less glad with that news.

Sybil smiled and settled her her onto his chest. "Don't worry, we've plenty of time to prepare."

"Not long enough," he sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes. "But for now I just need to sleep. Especially if I'm to survive nine more days here."

"How much do you need that sleep?" Sybil asked, her voice low and her hand tracing a line over his chest and under the blankets.

Tom's eyes opened as his wife's hand found what it was looking for.

His own hand found her neck, skimming up into her hair and pulling her in for a kiss.

"To hell with sleep."

Sybil laughed.

"Merry Christmas, Mr Branson."


End file.
